


Mating

by RedEris



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 02:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4943893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/pseuds/RedEris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen wants to worship at the shrine of his lover’s body, tender and loving. She, though, has a taste for something a little more…carnal.  He can be taught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mating

**Author's Note:**

> Pure abject smut and that is all.

It was difficult at first to teach him what she wanted, to make him believe her. He wanted to treat her as precious, to worship at the shrine of her. He was unsure, new, hesitant. 

When he set the tempo, usually it was slow and tender—often, she rode on top, rising high, back arched, so that he could see her. See her face, her breasts, her bite-reddened lips, her taking in his length as she rose and fell. She would lean down to kiss him, slow and hot, open-mouthed and sharing breath. He would whisper to her reverently—he loved her, she was so beautiful, he was so lucky, _how was he so lucky?_ He loved to see it in her face when she got closer and closer to the end, when she ground down onto him more fiercely, when she rolled her hips eagerly to push him against that sweet spot inside. He loved to lean up and catch her breasts in his mouth, first one and then the other, and hear her keen and pant as he tongued and sucked the nipples. The sound of her breath catching and whining in her throat, the sight of her eyes shut and her teeth gritted as she came around him, was almost always enough to finish him as well. She would collapse onto him, then, and his fingers would soothe through her hair as they caught their breath, and they would lie together without moving, without parting, until to lie still a second longer would be to fall asleep like that and wake up a sticky mess.

And she loved that. Of course she did. The way the tendons stood out in his neck, the harsh lines of his cheek and jaw when the end was near, the whispered praise, his curls all freed and disheveled. His hands on her hips pulling down, begging for more. But slowly, slowly, she taught him a different way. Slowly, he lost the fear of the inexperienced, the dread that he would finish too soon and leave her unsatisfied, the need to always hold back lest he somehow hurt or shock her. Slowly, he learned that one could be loving without always being gentle, and that she was no more a delicate flower in bed than in any other aspect of an undeniably hard life.

When they do it the way she likes best, it starts with her kneeling between his legs, mouth hot and wet, lips straining around his girth. No teasing, no drawing it out—no, that is not the purpose here. She sucks, she gently nips, she bobs over him until his hips move on their own—until, ultimately, he is rutting up into her mouth and hand, fists tangled in her hair, panting harshly. Until she can do nothing more than concentrate on breathing and her whole world narrows down to the final swelling of him before he gasps raggedly and spills down her throat.

But that is only the preparation. Because then it is her turn.

He needs time for what she wants, but it isn’t wasted time. This is the time for him to pull her up, to roll over her, slide his hand down the soft rise of her stomach, over the jutting of her hipbone, between her legs, to slip his fingers through her lips and feel them, slick and swollen with anticipation. This is when he kisses her roughly-used mouth and tastes himself in her. With one hand he tweaks her nipples—not gently, but in quick, sharp tugs and twists. With the other, he slides his finger into her and then quickly out again, teasing, thumbing over her button. And she writhes against his hand and moans and hold nothing back, inciting him on, until she can feel him stir once more against her hip. Then she reaches down—it’s always a tangle of arms and legs and odd angles—and grasps his cock, half-hard, to tug and squeeze urgently, demandingly. Sometimes he pulls his hand away from her and she whimpers at the loss as he uses the hand slicked with her wetness to coax himself back to hardness.

When he is ready again—oh, he knows what she wants now, he understands this dance now—he kisses her hard and growls at her, “On your front, woman.” She scrambles to obey. Scrambles to arch up and tip her ass into the air, presenting for him like an animal, pushing an impatient hand past her stomach, spreading herself open. The next step is for him to pin her with a heavy hand between her shoulder blades as he guides himself in, the thickness of him dragging against her lips, splitting her apart, as she gasps and arches back into him.

She usually keeps her eyes shut. He wants to see, but she—she wants to feel. To feel the stretch and burn of that glorious cock, the drag of every inch of it through her hypersensitized cunt. To feel the ridge of the head catching against her as he nearly pulls out and then snaps back in hard. To feel the weight of one hand pressing her into the mattress, the other kneading her hip. She reaches her fingers down and spreads them around him, marveling as his slides into her between them over and over.

Sometimes—often, if she’s honest with herself—it isn’t even about the ending. It’s about the feeling itself, and the end hardly matters. It’s about being pinned and covered, being totally overwhelmed with sensation, being _taken_. The shifting of his powerful thighs to either side of hers, the strength of him. It is _mating_ , raw and feral, and she loves it.

Because he knows she wants it—because she has begged for it—he lays over her, resting his weight on his elbows, and gathers her hair off the nape of her neck to bare it. And then he bites down hard. Hard enough to mark, hard enough to hold as he pounds into her and her body jars upwards with every thrust. She mewls and twists and pushes back onto him frantically, brings her free hand up to the headboard to brace and give him more leverage. 

She squeezes her thighs together, clenching around his cock as hard as she can, each exhale a high whine, and he know what she needs. He shifts his weight slightly higher so that he is driving less forward and more downward, his thrusts shallower, the head of his cock striking the front of her walls over and over. He knows he has the angle right when a new tone enters her cries, when she begins to move faster and faster between his thrusts and the heel of her hand, every new moan pitching upward higher and higher and higher, until at last she breaks and howls. In her throes, her fingers clutch and scratch new furrows into the headboard. He grabs her hair and yanks to the side so that he can see her face—eyes blown wide and then clenched shut again, mouth gaping open—and he rides her through it as she thrashes and comes apart under him and around him, each thrust a new spark to the flame until a distant part of her begins to be genuinely afraid that the next will somehow be too much and she will fly to pieces and never come back. They have danced this dance often enough and long enough that he hears and knows, nestling deep inside her and lowering himself to pepper kisses across her shoulders while she trembles, fluttering and spasming around him, soothing her and smiling gently against her back.

When she has recovered enough, she pushes back against him demandingly, insistently, until he follows her lead and they shuffle down the bed together, never parting. In the end she is on hands and knees and he is kneeling behind her. This is his permission, his invitation to satisfy himself and hold nothing back, but it is also perhaps her very favorite part. This is the part where his hands clamp around her hips and she braces against the bed with her forearms as best she can, and he begins to thrust hard, at first slow and measured but with a snap at the end of each stroke that sends her rocking forward and she cries out for harder, _harder, fuck me, fill me_. She smiles inside when she feels the moment the last thread snaps. She hears him snarl, just barely, and he drives into her ruthlessly, so hard that she forgets everything else and can do nothing but wail out her ecstasy and cling to the bed to anchor herself until he shouts, just the once, and tumbles over the edge, spurting into her, thrusting erratically, fingers shifting and clutching spasmodically on her hips and waist.

Afterwards, he likes to guide them both down to the bed together, spooning, with his cock still inside her. He likes to hold her and kiss the back of her head, moving lazily inside her just to savor the feeling a little longer, twitching deliberately just to hear her moan, feel her clench around him in response, until at last he softens and slips out. Then he gently cleans the spill of his seed from between her thighs as she lays limp and utterly sated, and gathers her into his arms already half asleep, and slips into sleep.

After a session like this, he rarely remembers any dreams, and wakes up still curled securely around her.


End file.
